


The End of the Beginning

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Near Future, Power Play, References to Prostitution, blowjob, threat of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Speculative scenario for after 3x14. After committing to a lengthy period of antagonism, Ed and Oswald's battles end in a way neither of them anticipated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One of many ideas I have kicking around my brain as to how Ed and Ozzie's story might play out. I started this during the hiatus, so it was initially intended as 3x14 spec, but 3x12 and 3x13 made it no longer compatible so... the best laid plans and all that :p still just about maybe could work with the canon for the moment, but is sure to be Jossed by 3x14 itself no doubt - there just seemed to be so many people writing versions of Ed and Ozzie's confrontation/climax that it made me wanna play as well!

There are worse ways to die. 

One of Jim Gordon’s bullets in his brain on the side of that pier for instance. Or one of Galavan’s – blood left to congeal with his mother’s and the grime and dust of the warehouse floor. Or bashed to a messy pulp, perhaps, at the freshly manicured hands of Fish Mooney. 

True, the edge of the blade scratching his throat isn’t pleasant and the frantic convulsions that follow the slicing of skin there have never looked a particularly enjoyable experience on any of his victims.

But he has the added touch of Edward Nygma’s fingers pressing down on his shoulder, Ed’s breath hot on his face – even his lips – and Ed’s eyes fixed on his own as he brings the knife ever closer.

 So yes. There are worse ways to die.

And desperate though their fighting has been ever since the faked kidnapping that turned Oswald’s world upside down, Oswald returning Ed’s subsequent attacks with as much venom as he could muster, the truth is his heart was never in it and they both knew. Ed was _always_ destined to be the victor here and now the moment’s arrived it’s _relief_ Oswald feels, not anger or fear and certainly not hate.

No, he could never hate Edward Nygma.

“Bravado won’t save you, Oswald,” Ed tells him, voice cool, the lone bulb hanging above them picking out the vibrant green of the suit and tie beneath his grey jacket – because naturally Ed had made sure he was well dressed for the occasion – as well as flashing white light over his glasses, making his face unreadable.

To think this place was meant to be a _Safe_ House – ha! Oswald should have known Ed would be waiting for him. Or perhaps deep down he had, but he’d come anyway, let himself be led like a rat in a maze just so all this would finally be over.

“You held out much longer than I expected,” Ed continues. “I’ll give you that. But in the end, I was smarter, wasn’t I?”

There’s a hint of uncertainty in the question, reminding Oswald of the constant yearning for approval Ed had shown in their early days together. It should seem jarring now, after all Ed’s recent manipulations, all his taunts – it has been a long time since Ed first set himself up as Oswald’s protégée, even longer since Oswald himself has viewed him as such. Yet it seems fitting somehow, that Oswald’s blessing be required in this moment – was this how Fish felt, he wonders, when he last bested her?

“Yes,” he answers. It’s not flattery, just the truth. “You were. You’ve been… magnificent, Ed.”

Ed’s fingers bite deeper into Oswald’s shoulder. The leather gloves he’s taken to wearing are curiously absent – too cumbersome for a weapon as delicate as a switchblade Oswald assumes – so his nails are free to claw through the thin white of the dress shirt Oswald had stripped to before Ed struck. Clever tactics, of course – waiting until Oswald was distracted and less likely to defend himself in time. No doubt the contrast of Oswald partially dressed and dishevelled while Ed is pristine is yet another part of Ed’s plan, a visual display of dominance, just in case Oswald was unclear in which direction the balance of power between them fell.

Oswald could have shouted for Gabe and his other men in the room next door, but chose to save his breath. Ed has likely disposed of them somehow anyway.

“Mockery is not something I’d advise given your current predicament.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Oswald grins. “You’ve _won_ , Ed. You played me perfectly. Bravo.”

The glare across Ed’s glasses dissipates as he leans closer, blocking the lightbulb with the back of his head, and Oswald makes out a small furrow between his old friend’s eyes. Curious. It seems he is not performing to Ed’s expectations.

Good.

Resigned to death Oswald might be, but that doesn’t mean he’s just going to roll over for it.

“I’m sorry, did you expect me to beg, or to cry?” he says, lifting his chin to emphasise the defiance in which he plans to meet his end. He can’t stop the flinch when the blade nicks his skin, but hopes his stoicism in the face of the resulting blood makes up for it. “I’m afraid I’m all out of salt water at this point!” he continues, baring his teeth.

The only response Ed makes is to drop his eyes, briefly, to the fresh cut. When he lifts them again nothing has changed – still that light crease between his eyes, still silent.

What’s he waiting for?

Then it dawns on Oswald and he sneers.

“Or do you want me to _apologise?_ ” His nose crinkles in disgust, a thick, powerful bitterness cultivated in these last few months of fury and heartbreak making him spit the rest. “Well I hate to disappoint you, but – or, no, no I don’t, because I am _not sorry_. If I had to go back _I would kill her again_ , I would kill her a thousand times, in a thousand ways, if it –”

There’s rough tug on his shoulder – Ed drawing him forward, just barely lifting the knife away as he does, only to slam him back against wall he has Oswald pinned to. A shock of air escapes Oswald at the painful impact of his shoulder blades against the plaster, some of which rains down on him in crumbling white flecks.

But now – finally – there’s some real emotion to Ed’s expression. His cheeks are flushed red, eyes blazing, lips curling back from his teeth. In the dim light it almost looks like passion and it makes Oswald laugh in delight.

“Stop it!” Ed snaps, pressing the blade back into place. “I’m going to kill you Oswald, do you understand? I have to kill you.”

“Do it then,” Oswald smiles. “Avenge your dear, sweet, saintly Isabelle – I’m sorry, Isa _bella!_ The love of your life.” He quirks his lip up at the corner. “Apart from Miss Kringle, of course. Or, do they count as one and the same? How many true loves can one person have exactly?”

Ed shakes his head.

“You really don’t care, do you? Has all this taught you _nothing_? I _trusted you_ Oswald, you were supposed to be my friend and you betrayed me. And _worse_ –” He leans in until they are nose to nose, Oswald’s image of him distorted by the closeness and the dual reflections of his own wild and bloody self in the lenses of Ed’s glasses. “– you made me look like a _fool!_ Chasing idiotic theories when all the time, all the time –” He leans back and flicks the knife round, tapping the flat of the blade against Oswald’s cheek. “– it was _you_. Do you even comprehend how much I _suffered_ , because of _you?_ And you’re not even sorry?” 

“ _You_ suffered?” Oswald hisses back, using the small freedom afforded by the absence of the blade at his neck to thrust his face forward, rewarded with a hot flush of victory when Ed winces, just a little, in response. “You think I haven’t suffered, because of you?”

Even on the receiving end, Oswald can’t help thinking Ed’s wide, curving smirk is delicious.

“That’s what this has all been about!” he answers, voice lilting at the end, words turning to melodic laughter as he draws the knife from Oswald completely to twirl the tip in a circle in the air, indicating their current tableaux and all that came before.

Oswald should take advantage of this – Ed might be stronger, but a well timed hit could knock the weapon from his hand easily enough, give Oswald the chance he needs to turn the tide back in his favour.

But he doesn’t.

He shouts instead, the need to purge all his bottled up pain and anger, to free himself of the burden of it, overruling his usual drive for self-preservation.

“Not then, _before!_ Watching you with _her!_ ” he rages, too wild to appreciate the way his sudden malice causes Ed to step back. “It _killed me!_ After everything I’d done for you, everything we’d been through _together_. You knew her for… for three days –”

“A _week!_ ” Ed interjects. “I knew her for _a week!_ ”

Oswald swipes his arm, dismissive, between them.

“Whatever. You loved her in _hours_. All the days I spent with you, and all she did was _smile_ and you were _in love?_ She didn’t even _know you_. Not like I know you. Did she see you bloody and laughing after slitting a man’s throat? No. You really think she would have loved you then? You think she could ever love you like I do?” His voice cracks. “ _No one_ can love you like I do!” He has to catch his breath for a moment after that, straighten up from the bent over position his screaming has left him in. “And you can hate me for it all you want, but no matter how it might sicken you _I. Will. Not. Apologise_ for loving you and fighting for you.”

Propelled by the force of his emotion Oswald staggers forward and has to flatten a hand on the wall behind him to steady himself, throat burning as he gasps in breath after cold breath. No heating in this run down, decrepit old dump. Ed has stripped him of all his hard won comforts.

“After all,” he pants. “All’s fair in love and war, isn’t it?”

It’s only when his breathing calms that he registers Ed’s silence in the face of his outburst and the lack of retaliation. When he glances up it’s to find Ed watching him, back straight, arms folded, knife resting casually in his right hand.

No, not watching – assessing.

“What? Calculating the best way to slice me up?”

Ed sucks in his lips. Takes a breath.

“You love me,” he says slowly and there’s something in his tone Oswald can’t place. Surprise? Disapproval? Surely not wonder? “Even now. After… everything?”

Loving Ed has become such an irrefutable fact of life for Oswald, like his crooked nose or twisted leg, that to have it questioned strikes him as absurd and he chokes on a couple of dry, breathy laughs. The way Ed frowns at him only increases Oswald’s amusement and he continues to chuckle as he answers.

“For a smart man, Ed, you can be incredibly stupid.”

Ed’s lips thin to a narrow line, knuckles growing pale as he grips the handle of the blade tighter, but Oswald presses on regardless of the danger.

“Do you really not understand? It doesn’t matter if we are friends or enemies or – or anything in between. Even working against me you are still the only one in this godforsaken city that actually _cares_ about me and certainly the only one to ever be a match for me. Just – just look at you!” Oswald thrusts an arm towards Ed and waves up and down from Ed’s face to his toes and back again, like he’s unveiling a World Wonder. “Look at where we are, what you’ve done. _You_ have succeeded where Fish, Falcone, Galavan and all the rest failed. You’ve bested me. And I don’t love you despite that, I love you _because of that_. Because that’s who you are. You have become one of the smartest, cruellest, most dangerous men in all of Gotham and Ed... it’s beautiful.”

Warmth seeps up Oswald’s neck and spots his cheeks, but it’s not anger this time. He hadn’t intended to be quite so… poetic, but his admiration had got the better of him. That has been one of the worst parts of their feud – the way Ed’s machinations could send him into raptures of both pain and wonderment in equal measure. Embarrassed, he curls his fingers into his palm, draws his arm back and fidgets a moment as he worries how best to hold himself now, settling eventually on clasping his hands across his chest.

Expecting cool mockery, or dismissal, it’s a surprise when Ed stutters back instead.

“But – but –” Ed’s lips move in silence, seeking words that don’t come. “That – that doesn’t – that’s not – That doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing logical about any of that!”

Oswald shrugs.

“Love isn’t logical.”

From Ed’s reaction you’d think Oswald had slapped him, his sudden gulping intake of breath almost comical, if it wasn’t for the way his folded arms also spring apart, knife raised before him.

They stand there for what feels like an age, Ed staring while Oswald holds still, not wanting to break this bizarre moment of grace within Ed’s attack they’ve somehow stumbled upon.

But it ends of course, as it must, with Ed twisting the knife in his hand so it points forward – the move is delicately made, with surgical precision, and Oswald finds himself mesmerised by it. Ed’s hands have always been fascinating, whether they are crisply folding files, smoothing fabric or cutting a blade through flesh there is an artistry to their movement, as though each occasion were choreographed. It pleases Oswald to think his death will be enacted with similar finesse.

“No…” Ed mutters under his breath. “No it isn’t.”

Oswald intends to keep his eyes open to the end, hoping for Ed’s face to be the last thing he sees. But when Ed strikes instinct takes over and his eyes press shut at the sudden movement, so in the dark he can only hear a guttural roar and then a rush of wind as the blade slams down.

 

***

 

There’s no pain, just moist heat across his face, and for a second Oswald wonders if Ed has performed some kind of diabolical medical feat, severing a vital nerve ending perhaps in order to prolong the torture.

Then his eyes blink open – are _capable_ of blinking open – to Ed gasping before him, staring at a spot just to the left of Oswald’s temple. Gingerly, Oswald starts to move his head and, on experiencing no resistance and a continuing lack of pain, turns himself fully.

More bits of plaster drift down at the move, some falling from where they’ve pooled on his shoulder, the rest from the place where the embedded tip of the knife juts from the wall, Ed’s hand still clasped about the handle.

Both of them stare at where the weapon has so obviously missed its mark, Oswald finding his own astonishment mirrored in the slack parting of Ed’s lips and the wide circles of his eyes.

What Ed does next is completely without warning and Oswald hasn’t time to even attempt resistance as his captor, tormentor and would-be executioner rips his hand from the knife and grasps both of Oswald’s shoulders instead. Oswald manages only a muffled squawk of protest as Ed’s mouth smothers his own. It’s messy and bruising, teeth against teeth, forced and violent and wrong.

“S – stop – stop it –” Oswald grits out in moments when Ed pauses for air.

He doesn’t expect the plea to work, so finds himself blinking back shock when Ed pulls away.

Ed is blinking too, brow creasing tighter and tighter, as though he’s as taken aback by his behaviour as Oswald.

“What’s the matter?” he says eventually. “Isn’t this what you want?”

“I –” Oswald stammers, still reeling and now confused by the new edge of impatience to Ed’s tone. “No!” he answers, then doubts himself. Because isn’t Ed’s intimacy, kisses included, _precisely_ what he’s wanted? “I mean – yes –” he amends, but that’s still not right. Was that really, truly, even a kiss at all? Aren’t they meant to be soft and gentle and sweet, like his mother’s? “I mean –” But then, no, it’s not exactly soft and gentle he wants from Ed. Shouldn’t passion have a little fire? A little pain? “I don’t –” Yes, passion should. But love – shouldn’t love be more? 

An image of a little girl in a sailor’s outfit smiles sweetly at him in his mind, then takes a crisp green note from Ed’s outstretched hand.

It was Ed who taught him the importance of knowing when affection is true, who’d made him crave sincerity. Of course it would be just like Ed to use that against him now – tease him with uncertainty, break his heart in whole new ways with false kisses and sham embraces. Oh god, he would rather death than torture like this – getting what he wants without getting it at all.

“I want it to be real…” His voice is small and broken now, all bravado gone.

Ed blinks once.

Then laughs.

Which cuts Oswald to the bone because he _adores_ Ed’s laughter. The unpredictable way it rises and falls. Ed often tries to curb it – reigns it in so it becomes a brief, triumphant crescendo. But sometimes he gets lost in it and it passes through him like a wave, wracking his whole body, bending him forward and back, head tilting to expose his neck, and this is one of those times.

Typically, these have been some of Oswald’s favourite times, being there when Ed loses control. Ed feels open then – touchable.

But this time, for the first time, Ed’s laughter has the opposite effect. Because this time he is the _subject_ – not the reason or the witness. Of course it’s not the first time he’s been the source of such ridicule, his desires reduced to absurdity, and anyone else would have inspired fury at _daring_ to pass judgement on him. But to have Ed of all people treat him with the same mockery, the same distain – Ed who once believed in him, who has matched him step for step – it claws inside him and leaves him hollowed out and cold.

“I’m sorry,” Ed chuckles as the wave passes. “It’s just, the irony is…” He lifts a hand from Oswald’s shoulder, presses two fingers to his thumb and draws an imaginary line, like he’s instructing an unseen orchestra to its finale. “It’s too much!”

“Irony? What – what irony?”

“You want it to be real,” Ed says, but not mocking, exactly. There’s something too self-deprecating about his smile. “That’s why you did it, why you killed her. Not just because she was a rival to my affections. You hoped that in my grief I would turn to you and out of my pain would grow the love you so desperately wanted.”

Oswald opens his mouth to counter the claim, but can’t find the words. It is, after all, the truth.

“It was a good plan,” Ed continues. “It might have worked. Except –” He lifts a finger. “– there was one thing you overlooked.”

Ed slides his hands down Oswald’s shoulders this time, fingers curling about his upper arms in a touch almost tender as he leans close to speak in Oswald’s ear.

“You can’t make something real, when it already exists.”

Try as he might in the pause that follows, Oswald can’t puzzle the words out.

“What are you saying?”

A nauseous mix of hope and dread fills Oswald as Ed turns to face him. The respect for his plan suggests Oswald was mistaken as to the cause of Ed’s laughter and Ed may not be disgusted by his affections after all. But the cold gleam in Ed’s eyes promises to reveal something sure to hurt him just as badly.

“You couldn’t make me love you, Oswald,” Ed tells him. “Because I _already_ loved you.”

A trick. A lie. It has to be.

“No…”

“Yes!” Ed insists, and Oswald only distantly registers the way Ed’s fingers pinch his arms as he continues. “I loved you, Oswald. I loved you _first!_ ”

Oswald struggles to breathe, because there’s a scratchy, broken quality to Ed’s voice that tells him this is no trick. Ed loved him – _loved_ him, past tense – and all at once Oswald is drowning in the hopeless reality of it.

“Of course I did,” Ed goes on. “You were the only one who ever –”

His eyes close in a grimace, face contorting as he wrestles with some inner emotion. Whatever wins out, it sees him thrust Oswald away with a cry and step back. When his eyes open again they are cloudy, his shoulders moving in a fast, erratic rise and fall to match his breathing, all of his body thrumming with a crazed _something_ it seems he can no longer suppress.

“When you came to me in Arkham,” he starts. “I thought you meant to kill me.” He gives a dry burst of laughter. “That all the visits and the presents were part of some – some larger plan of revenge for casting you aside that time.”

Ed stops and licks his lips, holding still for a moment before reaching out a hand, palm up, in placating gesture wholly out of place to the current situation.

“I am, still, incredibly sorry about that, by the way. The way I treated you was… unacceptable. I was just so fixated on Jim Gordon and –” His nostrils flare. “Well, you know how it is.” At that he stops and nods, concluding his apologetic interlude, while Oswald, quite lost at the direction this altercation has taken gives a vague nod and shrug of his shoulders in response. It’s unclear if Ed means to say Oswald knows what it is to be fixated in general or fixated on Jim Gordon in particular, but Oswald supposes the difference is largely inconsequential.

“It wasn’t until you got me out and brought me to work on your campaign,” Ed starts up again. “That I truly understood that you – you just valued my company.” More laughter. “ _Me!_ ” Ed flattens a palm to his chest and for one beautiful moment he looks at Oswald like he used to – eyes glinting not with hostility but with warmth. “Oswald, no one ever… _sought me out_. You were the first. The _only_ , at that point anyway.” His shoulders bunch up, hold, and drop slowly. “Falling in love with you was a statistical probability. I couldn’t have stopped myself even if I wanted to.”

Oswald gapes, overwhelmed not only by the shock of it, of knowing he’d had Ed’s love – _had_ it, and lost it, no, _destroyed it_ , like he is doomed to do to everything he loves apparently – but of the matter-of-fact way Ed speaks of it. ‘Statistical probability.’ Of course Ed would be as logical about matters of the heart as he is about everything else.

“God…” Oswald breathes, and it’s like breaking the surface after hours underwater. “You never - Why didn’t you tell me?”

A mistake. His words act like a switch being flicked on Ed, all warmth gone in an instant, lips that were softly curved at the edges dropping down, the hand on his chest curling into a fist.

“Why didn’t _I_ tell _you_?” Ed snaps. “Why didn’t _you_ –” He jabs his arm forward, one finger loosened from his fist to point at Oswald’s face in a gesture so furious Oswald can’t help but flinch despite the fact Ed is good five or six feet away from him. “– tell _me_?!” He makes a fist again as he brings his hand back to his chest and pats himself, hard, twice. “Every time I thought that you might… return my affections… _every time_ , Oswald, you failed to confirm my hypothesis. What else could I do but conclude that you didn’t reciprocate? And you had done so much for me already, I owed you everything, I couldn’t risk our friendship by pursuing the matter. _Of course_ I didn’t say anything, how could I?” He throws his arms in the air, voice growing thin as he repeats – “ _How could I?_ ” After a couple of deep breaths he seems to compose himself enough to continue. “And then, then Isabella found me. And it was like destiny.” His eyes close for a moment in something like ecstasy and Oswald takes the opportunity to roll his own, his patience for Ed’s flowery descriptions of the bond between him and the woman he barely knew long since exhausted. “She was my second chance,” he goes on. “My chance to be the man I could have been, _should_ have been with Kristen, and you – you –!”

The lunge is so fast Oswald has no hope of seeing it coming – one second Ed is soliloquising, the next his hands are at Oswald’s throat. Not _on_ Oswald though, not quite, Ed stops himself just shy of touching skin.

“Do you know,” he hisses, flexing his fingers. Oswald only needs to swallow to feel the brush of Ed’s thumb against his Adam’s apple. “How _humiliating_ it is having someone _else_ figure out a puzzle you think you’ve already solved?”

Ed grits his teeth and Oswald tenses, readying himself again for the final, fatal, blow.

But once again Ed falters, dropping his hands back to Oswald’s shoulders and resting his forehead against Oswald’s own clammy brow.

“I was fortunate it was only Miss Kean who uncovered the truth. At least she sympathises and respects me. Was willing to help me deal with the situation my way. Until Tabitha demanded my demise of course, but that was only to be expected”

Knowing Barbara Kean like he does and aware that even now she is well on her way to having the newly appointed heads of the Five Families wrapped around her painted little finger, such thinking strikes Oswald as somewhat naïve. But he has learnt his lesson when it comes to interrupting Ed during this impromptu confession and so bites his tongue.

Exploitation might be a better description of Barbara’s recent conduct, though he can hardly blame her – that’s the game, isn’t it? She played and she won, using Ed’s genius to enhance her own mediocre talents enough to take the throne. If he’d been on better form she would never have gotten close, but what with the emotional fallout from Arkham, acting as Mayor and this being in love business he’s been distracted of late. Still, no point lamenting over that now, it is what it is.

“So really, you bought this on yourself, Oswald. You see that, don’t you? You see that I had to? I _had_ to do this,” Ed mutters, pressing them both closer together so it’s impossible for Oswald to catch even a glimpse of his expression. “You had to pay. Because I loved her –” There’s a second where Oswald thinks Ed means Barbara. But no, he has returned once more to the exalted Isabella. “– I loved her, and I swore vengeance. I _swore it_. Even if it was you. _Especially_ because it was you! And especially after my wretched mistake with Butch and Tabitha. I can’t just let you go because I’m in love with you, how would that make me look? I –”

“What?” Oswald says, forgetting his decision not to interrupt.

Ed is scowling as he draws his face away, glasses slipped so his glare falls over the rim.

“I said I _had to_ –”

But Oswald cuts him off again, sudden fire inside him making him bold enough to go as far as grasping both of Ed’s wrists.

“No. You said you love me,” he says, quickly before Ed can stop him. “Love. Not loved.”

“No, I –”

“Yes, yes you did.”

It could have been a grammatical error, nothing more. But Edward Nygma is not the kind of man to make such a mistake and combined with his rambling procrastination and the kiss – had it maybe, really, been a kiss after all? – Oswald has to wonder. And hope. Dear god how he hopes.

“Do you –” He starts. Swallows. Eyes not leaving Ed’s for a second, quite certain if he breaks contact this chance will be lost to him forever. “Do you still love me, Ed?”

_Please. Please please please._

“No,” Ed says, shaking his head, only to follow up immediately with – “Yes.” And again – “No.”

The way Ed’s eyes grow wide and white is perhaps the most shocking of anything he has attempted so far, because Oswald knows that expression. Oh yes, the cause of such a reaction has been his closest friend all his life, but he has never seen it grace Ed’s features, not once. Even under threat Ed is always so collected, so in control, Oswald had begun to wonder if he was even capable of such a feeling, but the fact of it here is undeniable. Edward Nygma is afraid.

So much that, despite being the one with all the power between them, he actually jerks from Oswald’s hold and backs away.

“I don’t know, I –” he stammers. “It doesn’t matter. It –”

Ed glances up at knife still in the wall and, thinking he intends to grab for it, Oswald starts to reach for the weapon himself, an inkling of his old fight returning. Only Ed doesn’t try for the knife, instead he averts his eyes from it, muttering as he looks down.

“Stop it. Go away…”

This makes Oswald pause.

“You’re the one attacking me,” he says. “And you want me to leave?”

“No, no not you,” Ed answers, giving Oswald only a cursory frown and shake of his head as he turns his gaze once more to the blade. “Just – _leave me alone_ I don’t need you right now.”

Perplexed, Oswald turns to the weapon himself, but sees only glinting metal and Ed’s panicked face reflected back at him. As he watches, Ed’s mirror self snarls then presses the ball of his hand to his forehead, eyes gluing shut, head twisting to the side.

“No, he’s _not_ right. I don’t. I don’t!” he murmurs under his breath and Oswald nods as a glimmer of understanding starts to surface.

He’s read Ed’s file from Arkham, obviously, and while there’d been no mention of hallucinations forming part of his particular psychosis, the various medical staff who examined him had been hesitant to make a firm diagnosis. Multiple commentaries had implied Ed was withholding information, his answers too obvious, too precise, as though he were simply telling the doctors what they wanted to hear instead of providing an honest response. Oswald had smiled at that, at the way Ed hadn’t let those cretins at the Asylum break him.

It didn’t matter to him whether Ed suffered from a touch of lunacy or not, he’d read the file out of curiosity more than anything and to double check Ed hadn’t undergone any suspicious treatment – like Oswald’s ‘dream therapy’ for instance or whatever their old friend Hugo had done to his monsters.

Based on Ed’s behaviour now it seems the doctors had been right – Ed was holding back. Though Oswald doesn’t begrudge him for seeing things that aren’t there, considering he himself had not so long ago believed with utmost conviction he was having visions of his dead father.  

“Ed…” he starts, turning and taking a limping step forward.

Ed drops the hand from his forehead and holds it up in a stilling gesture, a pleading quality filling his eyes as they find Oswald’s and hold there.

“I’m not crazy.”

Aware he will need to play this _delicately_ , Oswald lifts both hands in a sign of submission and shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t fault you if you were,” he says, keeping his voice soft, like his mother’s when she used to comfort him after nightmares as a child. “It would be a little hypocritical.”

His tactic works, Ed visibly calming in response, shoulders relaxing, breath slowing. His eyes flick to the blade again and he nods.

“The knife was my mistake,” he says. “It’s too personal. Perhaps a gun…”

In a move that speaks volumes as to how far from his original plan he’s drifted, he turns his back on Oswald to survey the room.

After a swift assessment of the room’s meagre offerings – one bed, no sheets; one wardrobe, charred, door hanging off its hinges; one chest of drawers to the left of the bedside, holding one lamp, bulb smashed – he heads towards the dresser in four quick strides and begins to examine it.

The drawers are old and warped and stiff and Ed’s hands are shaking, so he’s barely opened two of the five by the time Oswald has made his own laboured walk to Ed’s side.

Ed stops with the third drawer partially open to wave a hand.

“What kind of criminal are you not having a gun?” he snaps without looking up.

“Ed, I –” Oswald reaches for Ed’s arm, but jumps back when Ed slams both hands on the dresser’s wooden top, causing the lamp to topple over, the remainder of its bulb dropping in shattered pieces to the floor.

“You were supposed to hate me!” Ed shouts, head bowed between his outstretched arms. “This was supposed to make you hate me, so I could kill you and be done with it.” His fingernails scratch at the dark, flaking varnish across the dresser’s surface. “You couldn’t even get that right. Why don’t you just hate me, like everyone else does eventually?”

It’s a question Oswald has asked himself over and over the last few weeks. God knows it would be so much easier if he did hate Ed. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s cursed Ed’s name and claimed to, but no matter how often he railed against him, wishing him all the variety of pain and suffering he knows, the hate had never come.

And maybe there is some psychology behind it, some quirk of his mind that gives Ed immunity to what comes naturally for anyone else. Maybe Hugo Strange and his tinkering are to blame. Oswald doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. There’s only one answer that matters to him.

“Because I love you.”

A heavy, defeated sigh escapes Ed, his whole body sagging with it and Oswald recognises in the fall a final, complete shift in the balance of power.

“That’s not an answer.”

“But it’s the truth,” Oswald presses. “I love you, Ed.” He reaches out and places a hand over Ed’s scratching fingers, an electric thrill coursing through him when Ed accepts the touch. “I love you, and –”

It hits him then – all Ed’s fury and fear, his convoluted revenge, his failure to deal that final blow, slotting together piece by piece until the full picture appears as clear as day. For though he blames Oswald for not hating him, Ed _is a smart man_ , the smartest Oswald knows – if he’d truly wanted Oswald’s hatred, then he would have it. With everything Ed knows about him, all the secrets, all the personal stories he’s shared, it would be child’s play for a man like Edward Nygma to poison Oswald affections.

No, the truth is this has never been about Oswald’s hate at all. And it’s not _Oswald’s_ lack of it that’s the problem.    

A smile bursts across Oswald’s face and he grows breathless as he continues, knowing with absolute certainty he is right about this.

“– and _you_ love _me_.”

Unable to contain his excitement, Oswald shuffles closer and clutches Ed just below the elbow with his free hand, fingers twisting round the course fibres of his jacket.

“You do.”

Ed draws a shaky breath and lifts his far hand to where Oswald’s rests across his arm. Oswald holds his breath, but Ed doesn’t touch. Instead, he flattens his fingers into a line and holds them to his lips, almost like he’s praying. When he answers, the words hold all the sweetness and sanctity of something holy to Oswald in any case.

“ _Yes_. Against all reason, _yes_.”

Light-headedness floods Oswald and the world seems to spin around them, Ed’s stiff, unmoving form the only constant, making him grip Ed’s arm even tighter because it feels like if he doesn’t Oswald might float away. But even if he did he knows he could endure it, could face anything and everything the world has to throw at him, because _Edward Nygma is in love with him_. He has weathered the storm and emerged, not unscathed but at least victorious, on the other side and Oswald knows in that moment, right to his very bones, that everything, all the pain and anger and heartbreak, has all been _worth it_. Or more that than, has been _necessary_ to bring them both here, to this point.

He wants to tell Ed all this, but it’s too big for him to articulate, so he just shakes and gasps and eventually manages a weak –

“Well then…”

But when Ed turns to him, hand chopping downwards to fill what remains of the minimal space between them, his expression couldn’t be a greater contrast to the way Oswald feels. It’s like those silly logos for the theatre, Oswald thinks, each of them a mask of joy and sorrow respectively.

“‘Well then’ what?” Ed says, pulling his hand free from Oswald’s so he can fold his arms tight across his chest. “It doesn’t change anything. It’s not as though we can… be together.”

Still giddy from Ed’s confession, this doesn’t damper Oswald’s enthusiasm as much as it might have.

“Why not?” He asks. Then holds up both hands, palms forward, to stop Ed from answering. Because it occurs to Oswald that this has become a negotiation, which puts him into familiar territory. Vast experience with Gotham’s criminal elite has taught him that when negotiating you don’t wait to be told what the other party wants, that’s a sure fire way to have them steamroll you, no you outline your position first so the others are forced to come up with a counter offer. “Is it still because of Isabelle?”

“Isabe _lla_ ,” Ed mutters, but Oswald continues over him.

“Because I will perform any penance you need me to, Ed, I swear. Whatever else I need to suffer, I will. I –”

“No, no,” Ed interrupts. “I don’t need more of your penance, Oswald. You’ve given more than enough.” His lips flatten out, eyes beautifully, beautifully _soft_. “This is bigger than punishment for your betrayal, don’t you see? It doesn’t matter that we’re equal now, suffering –” He frees an arm to point to Oswald. “– paid for suffering.” Then brings his hand back to press his fingertips to his own chest. “We are still… _compromised_.”

Oswald shakes his head.

“I don’t understand.”

Ed touches a finger to the bridge of his glasses to fix them tighter across his face.

“I told you once – do you remember? – that love would always be a weakness for men like us.”

“I remember…”

How could Oswald ever forget? All of him burning up inside with grief and shame and anger at the loss of his mother, his body weak and feeble, it was the closest to death he’d ever been. Then out of nowhere this man, this nobody, was standing there, a fixed point of calm in his turmoil, reminding him how to be strong, how to turn suffering into power, seeing in him the man he’d always longed to be. It was a moment that would stay with him forever.

“When I left Arkham, it was like a fresh start,” Ed continues. “I thought things could be different, I could be a new man. But I was a fool and I see that now. We are what we are, Oswald. And what we are is incompatible with love.”

“No, that’s not –”

“Yes, it _is_.” Ed lifts both hands, half waving, half shrugging. “Look at where our love has left us. You have lost your political office, your empire, everything. Even now you’re standing there _begging me_ to take more from you! And I – I have been so consumed with thoughts of you and Isabella, I’ve been blind to facts that should have been clear to me all along. And this is just what we have done to _ourselves_.” He flattens both palms, criss-crossed over each other, across his collar bone and the positioning just below his neck gives the impression he is not only emphasising their complicity but also miming self-strangulation. “The ways our enemies could use our affections against us are too vast to contemplate. No, there is only _one_ solution and that is that, regardless of our personal feelings on the matter, one of us _has to die_. It’s the only way either of us can hope to live a free life.” As though in supplication, Ed brings his still crossed hands forward, reaching out to Oswald, a hint of desperation in his voice as he repeats – “It’s the _only way_ , Oswald. What else can we do?”

The logic of Ed’s assessment is dizzying and Oswald has to close his eyes and breathe in deep in order to take it all in.

From the way Ed lays it out, the conclusion is ironclad. No negotiation could hope to shake his resolve. But now Oswald has something to fight for again he finds his mind open out with a fresh assortment of tricks ready and waiting. After a moment of contemplation he plucks the most promising and opens his eyes.

“You’re right,” he says. “My dear Ed, you are absolutely right. As always.” A little stroke of his friend’s ego to ease the way. “There is no other option. So –”

He leans over, opens the top drawer and reaches in. In his haste Ed had missed the false back and in seconds Oswald has removed the pistol all his Safe Houses are stocked with. As Ed had rightly surmised – he is that kind of criminal.

Ed drops his hands to his sides, body tensing, when he sees the weapon. Then frowns as Oswald goes on to very slowly and deliberately place it on top of the dresser and slide it within Ed’s reach.

“Take it,” Oswald tells him, relinquishing his hold. “If one of us has to die, it should be me.”

Tentatively, with Oswald nodding encouragement all the while, Ed touches a hand to the gun, giving it a few nervous taps before resting his hand over the metal, as though it were a coiled snake he feared might bite him if he grasped too hard and too fast.

“Why?” he asks, as Oswald knew he would.

“Because…” He licks his lips, preparing himself to see this improvised plan through. “Because if I lose you now, I might as well be dead,” he says. “I am a lost cause, Ed. You are the love of my life. I will never find another and I will _never_ get over you. Besides, I have had my moment, I have left my mark on this city. But you, you have so much left to give. You are going to do great things, my friend, I know it, and I will not be the one to stand in your way.”

Voice shaky, eyes bright with what Oswald fancies might be tears but may just as well be a trick of the light, Ed whispers Oswald’s name then falls silent.

“Don’t feel bad,” Oswald continues. “You’re right, this is my fault. If I’d said something sooner, maybe… but it’s too late now. At least I’ll be with my parents…”

When Ed doesn’t move Oswald leans over and fits the gun properly into his hand, curling Ed’s finger round the trigger. Ed doesn’t help, but he doesn’t resist either, not even when Oswald grabs his wrist and lifts his arm, aiming the gun at the centre of his own forehead.

“I’m ready,” Oswald nods into the barrel.

This is the risky part – if Ed pulls the trigger right away it’s all over.

But like Oswald hoped, he pauses to collect himself first and in that moment Oswald speaks again.

“Wait, wait!”

And, caught in that moment of faltering before action, Oswald’s words keep Ed there, staring down his outstretched arm. Waiting.

“Can I maybe – Could you – Could I make a last request?”

What else can Ed say but –

“Yes. Yes of course.”

“Can I… Can I say goodbye?”

“Goodbye?” Ed repeats, head tilting. “To who?”

“To you.” This answer, as intended, builds on Ed’s confusion, allowing Oswald to shuffle passed the gun while his friend tries to make sense of the request and slip his hands into Ed’s belt. “Like this,” Oswald explains, holding Ed’s gaze while he works to undo the buckle.

“Oh…” Ed mutters, then again, only louder, as Oswald finishes with the belt and pops the button of Ed’s fly. “Oh!”

“Please,” Oswald continues, one hand already tugging down Ed’s zipper while his other curves over the top of his pants, nudging at the fabric of Ed’s neatly tucked in shirt until his knuckles drag across warm skin.

The noise Ed makes is more whimper than gasp. A reaction to the cold of Oswald’s hand perhaps, but from the way Ed’s outstretched arm starts to dip, other hand reaching back to grip the edge of the dresser, Oswald suspects otherwise.

“Oswald, I – I don’t – ”

“ _Please_ ,” Oswald repeats. “Just… just let me have one taste of how it could have been.” He slips through the now parted zip and presses the ball of his hand over Ed’s boxers.

Ed jumps and stutters.

“Ah-ah-ah-”

All of him grows tense and he bends forward, resting his arm on Oswald’s shoulder so Oswald can feel the weight of the gun ghosting his back. But Ed doesn’t push Oswald away, just holds there, breath growing laboured, and stares at Oswald with parted lips and wide eyes.

The shock – that’s expected. But the way Ed’s cock is already twitching under Oswald’s palm is a surprise, it usually takes much longer to inspire that kind of physical reaction.

“You’ll enjoy it, I promise,” Oswald goes on, falling into his customary sales pitch for matters like these and trying not to let the way Ed swallows, pupils growing inky black with need without even a proper touch to him yet, overwhelm him. “I’m very good.”

Normally Oswald has to wait a while here for the other party to prepare themselves. Preparations might include closing their eyes, so they don’t have to see him while he works, and muttering some other name under their breath, often a woman’s. Move in too soon and they have a tendency to grow disenchanted and slap him away, screaming obscenities as they leave.

So when Ed nods at him, eager, without a pause, eyes bright and open, Oswald has to swallow back emotions of his own. It’s just so unprecedented, having someone want _him_ as much as the end result. Anxious that his reaction might affect his performance, Oswald quickly drops his gaze and directs his focus to the matter, quite literally, in hand.

Gripping Ed’s hip he lowers himself awkwardly to the floor – his troublesome leg had become something of an obstacle to this part of the proceedings, but not an insurmountable one. Soon enough he’s in position, helped by the way Ed leans back, dropping his right hand along with the gun to the top of the dresser behind him.

The rest is the easy part – freeing Ed’s now half hard cock and licking it thoroughly before taking it into his mouth while Ed voices a breathless “oh… oh _my_ …” above him.

Oswald hadn’t been lying when he said he was good at this. During his ascent through Gotham’s world of organised crime, sucking cock, both literally and figuratively, was one of many skills he’d perfected over the years. Whatever it took to give him an edge. Though interestingly, his knowledge of how to bring about female pleasure remains lacking. Not that he’s adverse to the idea precisely – to be honest he tends towards indifference for the business as a whole. It’s simply that such a tactic has never been required of him with a woman. The only one he might have tried with was Fish, and it had been clear from the start that she would never allow herself to be distracted by such base manipulation.

As such it’s largely automatic the way he tends to Ed, letting his body lose itself in the rhythm of the thing while his mind works on other matters. It’s what happens after this that will be key and he needs to plan it just right.

Although Ed’s unabashed _enjoyment_ is distracting. Such a constant stream of high pitched cries and bitten back moans. And when Oswald glances up to check Ed’s expression for visual cues on how fast or slow or deep to go more often than not Ed is waiting to meet his gaze, albeit through half closed lids that flicker shut whenever his cock hits the back of Oswald’s throat just so. But still, the desire to include him in the experience is such a wonder and Oswald is shocked to feel a stirring of his own beginning each time he catches Ed’s eye.

It’s the touch of fingertips across the back of his hand that fully breaks Oswald’s concentration though, making him stall and hum out his surprise.

He’s known a lot of touches in the heat of the moment – harsh twists of his hair, hands bruising the back of his neck as he’s forced to choke deeper and deeper, so many kinds of scratches – but never something soft. Yet not only does Ed’s hand brush lightly over where Oswald grips his hip, it is his _right_ hand that does. Which means Ed must have discarded the gun in favour of the caress and when Oswald flicks his eyes upward he sees that, sure enough, the weapon lies forgotten upon the dresser, Ed’s other hand gripping the edge tighter and tighter until the whole cabinet is shaking from the pressure.

“Oswald I – oh, oh, _Oswald, Os_ –”

Hearing his _own name_ spoken with such yearning, knowing this passion is about him, is almost too much. But then Ed is swelling in his mouth, the rest of him trembling so hard the vibrations cause the gun and lamp to begin edging across the dresser surface, and Oswald remembers that he still has a job to finish.

It only takes one more swallow and Ed is coming with a shout and his touch grows more familiar then, fingers scrabbling at the back of Oswald’s head, digging in as he rides out the waves. The pain isn’t much but it helps Oswald to focus, to keep his throat open in order to drink everything down, and the thick, warm rush of Ed’s pleasure reminds him that no matter everything else Ed is also still a man like any other.

Once spent and released, Ed brings round a shaky hand to tuck himself away while Oswald cleans his mouth with his sleeve. Then, just as Oswald lifts his head to voice the next part of his plan, Ed’s knees start to buckle and Oswald can only watch, astonished, as Ed drops to the floor beside him and falls back against the drawers, regardless of their jutting, splintered handles.

The dresser rocks a few times as it adjusts to the weight, causing the lamp and more specifically the gun to shuffle further along the surface until the weapon reaches the edge, poised to fall right into Ed’s lap. Oswald watches it hover there, then lie still. Meanwhile below, a dazed Ed settles his glasses back into position from where they’d dropped down his nose in the fall.

Now or never.

“If you –” Oswald starts, then stops to cough his throat clear. “If you share me you lose me. If you want to – to keep me, I can only be yours. What am I?”

It’s not terribly clever, this kind of wordplay is not his forte, but considering he had only the duration of a short, intense blowjob to put it together Oswald is rather proud of the effort.

Ed blinks at him.

“Is this – are – are you asking me a riddle?”

Luck has ever been a cruel mistress to Oswald, but sometimes – rarely but sometimes – she smiles on him. And when she does he knows not to miss the opportunity.

“Do you like riddles?” he answers and knows from the gleam in Ed’s eye that the reference to their first, innocuous meeting has not escaped him.

Nothing like nostalgia to tempt you to hold on to things past.

“Secret,” Ed says. “You’re a secret.”

“Not just any secret.” Oswald crawls forward beside Ed’s outstretched leg, stopping where his other bends upwards with Ed’s arm resting at the knee. Sitting up on his haunches, Oswald leans in with a conspirative smile. “I am an _excellent_ secret.”

He gives a low chuckle, confidence growing with the truth to every word that follows.

“I was Jim Gordon’s secret. And Maroni’s. And all the while I was Carmine Falcone’s. No one knew!” Oswald laughs at the memory of it. The times may have been hard but the payoff – the payoff had been glorious. “Not Fish Mooney, not those cretins at the GCPD, not the Five Families, _no one_. I fooled them all, Ed!”

Resting both hands on his shins Oswald leans closer, looking up at Ed through his lashes – an old trick, playing on his stature so he seems inferior.

“And just think,” he continues, speaking slower to add grandeur to his proposal. “How good I would be if I was _your secret_.”

“ _Mine_ …” Ed breathes, eyes struggling a little to hold their focus. A good sign, if Ed is still fogged by afterglow his thoughts will be more malleable.

“In public, we could be anything,” Oswald tells him. “Enemies. Rivals. Reluctant allies. Whatever you want. But behind the scenes, everything I have would be at your disposal.”

Ed quirks an eyebrow.

“Everything you have?” His eyes grow sharper, awareness returning. “That counts for very little these days,” he notes.

“Please,” Oswald grins. “I have climbed my way up from less. I still have my father’s fortune, I can gain new power like _that_.” He snaps his fingers. “Just wait.”

There’s something undeniably gratifying in the way Ed merely nods at this, accepting Oswald’s capabilities without question. It tells Oswald that no matter how low he falls his reputation has earned him an ongoing respect, that whatever else he might be he is still The Penguin, now and forever.

“So –” Ed lifts the hand on his knee, finger pointing upwards. “Let me see if I understand you. You are offering to share all your future power with me, in secret. I assume –” He flattens his palm out, spreading his fingers. “Money? Men? Guns? Information?” Oswald nods along with him until Ed stops and shrugs. “For what? What do you expect me to do with such generous… donations?”

Oswald shrugs back.

“Anything you want,” he answers. “You’re a clever fellow, Ed. I’m sure you have… ideas, plans, for what you might do in this city if you had the resources.”

The way Ed bites his bottom lip, eyes growing distant, is another triumph. It’s the look of someone already imagining ways to spend their future currency, which means that for that moment, in mind if not in deed, Ed has already agreed to Oswald’s terms. He just needs one more push.

“What if…” Ed starts, dragging his gaze back to Oswald. “What if I don’t want your resources?”

Oswald is unaware how wide he was smiling until he stops. He should have known better than to think Ed’s response to a business deal would be as typical as any other.

“What if I want to make my own name for myself, unbeholden to anyone?”

Just as Oswald is beginning to formulate a counter offer, Ed reaches over to stroke his cheek, thumb circling his lips.

“What if I wanted… a different kind of service from you?” Ed continues, chin lifting, eyes bright.

The question and the touch chill Oswald for a second – not because of what Ed is asking of him, but because of how badly he wants to accept, how willing he is to prostitute himself just to keep Ed in his life.

But then he recalls the way Ed had come undone so easily at his touch, how he’d fallen to where he lies, overwhelmed by Oswald’s attention. How minutes ago Ed had been a breath away from killing him and now here he is, looking at him with desire. Ed might like to think he’d have Oswald under his thumb, but the power between them ran both ways.

To prove the point, instead of answering Oswald opens his mouth and takes said thumb between his lips, sucking down to the knuckle and back and down, watching as Ed’s eyes grow darker all the while, his breath catching. As he pulls off Oswald bites down on the tip and Ed sighs.

“What a dirty little secret you’d be…” he mutters, thumb rubbing over Oswald’s bottom lip and down his chin, a smear of saliva in its wake. He takes a breath, releases it slowly, then takes one more. “No one could know,” he says, eyes fixing on Oswald’s. “No one.”

“No,” Oswald agrees. “Although, if anyone did find out, I’m sure you’d think up a creative way to ensure their silence.”

Ed hums around a smile.

“Yes,” he says. Then shifts so he’s kneeling as well, leaning in close as he repeats – “Yes…”

The space between them closes, acquiescence within Oswald’s grasp. Almost there. Almost.  

“Just one thing.” Ed presses his fingers to Oswald’s waiting lips. “The gun.” Oswald’s eyes flick up, searching Ed’s expression only to find him once more inscrutable. “Was it even loaded?”

To lie now would be pointless, Ed could check. All Oswald can do is smile, tell the truth and hope for the best.

“No,” he answers. Ed had been distracted enough that a little sleight of hand had been easy to slip by him, all Oswald had to do was pull back the chamber and tip out the bullets inside the drawer.

The wait that follows is agonising, knowing with each passing second that his whole future depends on what happens next. Oswald’s heartbeat grows so fast his chest feels ready to crack under the strain.

Then there’s that long, serpentine smirk filling up Ed’s face.

“Well played,” he nods, approving, as he runs his hand along the back of Oswald’s neck and kisses him.

And kisses him.

And kisses him.

And this time it’s everything Oswald has dreamed of and more, Ed’s lips warm and soft, fingers gentle as they sink into his hair, Ed’s other arm circling round him and holding him close. Heat pricks the corners of Oswald’s eyes as he grabs hold of Ed’s lapels and responds in kind, so he closes them, and pays no heed to the warm drips that escape because what do trivialities like that matter when he is here, finally, safe and wanted in Ed’s arms?

This arrangement between them won’t be easy, he knows that. His hold on Ed is tenuous, it will only take one slip to expose them beyond repair and if that happens he knows Ed will truly be lost to him, may even revisit his plan to kill him. It will be a relationship lived on a knife edge, never sure from one day to the next if they’re to be lovers or nemeses.

But as Ed lets his hands drift beneath Oswald’s shirt and lower, proving himself as adept at causing pleasure as he is pain, Oswald can’t help thinking –

There are worse ways to live.


End file.
